The Birthday Party
by katkin
Summary: "Now, listen, it's been a long year and we would like to celebrate the fact that you are still alive. So, this is what's going to happen. Go in there, smile, eat your dinner, blow out your candles and then it will all be over." Sherlock is thrown a surprise 40th birthday party. My first attempt at Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

A/N - I haven't written or posted anything since 2012! How is that even possible? Anyway, series 4 seems to have awoken the Sherlolly shipper in me. Who would have guessed it?

Comments welcome, but please be gentle. They say it's like riding a bike, but it really isn't.

Chapter 1

Onions made Molly cry. They always had done. It didn't help that she had itched her eye mid-chopping, and she continued to rub at her eye carefully, trying not to ruin her mascara any more than she already had. It was nearing 5 o'clock. Mrs Hudson had said she would be back by now. Molly Hooper busied herself around the elder woman's compact kitchen, silently acknowledging that she was behind schedule. As she thought this, she heard a key in the door, followed by Mrs H's voice carrying down the hallway.

"Only us. He's not here yet, is he?"

Molly shook her head as her friend entered the room.

"You've been gone ages," Molly tried not to nag.

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry dear. But I had to speak to the key worker at the nursery. This one's had a bad day."

Molly glanced around Mrs Hudson's legs to where their goddaughter stood playing with the toggles on her duffle coat.

"What's up, Rosie Roo?"

"Oh, she hasn't spoken a word on the way home. Her key worker says she's been like it all day." Mrs Hudson rolled up her sleeves and began to busy herself at the stove, stirring the large pan. Steam lifted into the air. "Smells good, love."

Molly smiled and then ushered Rosie back into Mrs Hudson's living room, to remove her coat and shoes.

"What's that frown for, eh? It's Uncle Sherlock's birthday. He'll be here soon and he'll want to see your beautiful smile. You were going to sing your song for him, remember?"

Rosie Watson shrugged, looking at her feet.

"Well, I can't sing it," Molly continued brightly, unbuttoning the winter coat. "He won't want it from me, you'll have to do it."

Rosie sighed. Molly's shoulders lowered.

"What is it, Roo? Is something upsetting you?"

The three-year-old considered the question.

"Abbie May won't play with me. She won't let me play in the gang."

"Gang?" scoffed Molly. "What do you want to be in a gang for? You're three. You should be having fun, eating sand or glue sticks or something."

"She won't let me play with her because I don't have a mummy."

Molly's breath caught in her throat. She stood up to her full height, laying Rosie's coat across the sofa arm.

"Really? Well, I don't have a mummy either. Neither, does Mrs Hudson. You can be in our gang." Molly marched back into the kitchen, filled with a sudden anger and sadness. Rosie swung on the edge of the door frame.

"Where is my mummy?" she asked. Mrs Hudson and Molly looked at each other. Molly continued to busy herself, avoiding the child's patient stare.

"Does Daddy ever talk about Mummy?" Molly asked. Rosie shook her head, her curls bobbing from side to side. Before Molly could say another word, the doorbell rang. Rosie immediately remembered she wasn't speaking to anyone and dived under the kitchen table.

Mrs Hudson welcomed the Family Holmes into her home. Sherlock's brother greeted Molly with a tight smile as he was followed by his parents into the cosy living room.

"Thank you all for coming," Mrs Hudson beamed. "Sherlock will be so pleased to see you all."

Mycroft's smile broadened. "I'm certain of it, Mrs Hudson."

She bustled away to put the kettle on.

"Doctor Hooper, always a pleasure. Have you met my parents, Stella and Edward? This is Doctor Molly Hooper, _a very dear friend_ of Sherlock's."

Molly shook hands with Mr and Mrs Holmes.

"Ah, my dear," beamed Mrs Holmes. "Sherlock has told us all about you. He speaks very fondly of you."

"Really?" Molly winced at the colour filling her cheeks.

"Of course," replied his father, brightly. "And all of the fresh body parts you so kindly provide."

Molly's face fell and she made her excuses, rushing back to the kitchen to check on the meal.

It was not long before the door banged closed. Everyone braced themselves but it was only John, who shrugged off his coat as he greeted the full room.

"He not here yet?"

"Perhaps he got wind of your not-so-subtle plans, Doctor Watson," Mycroft scoffed as he scrolled through his phone. His mother elbowed him in the ribs. John ignored him and looked around the room. "Where's Rosie?"

"Under the table," Mrs Hudson remarked. John frowned.

"Oi, cheeky monkey," he called, lifting the edge of the table cloth up. "I haven't seen you all day and you don't even come out to say hello." Rosie shrugged. "What's the matter?"

"Actually John, can I have a word?" Molly asked, leading him out into the main hallway.

"Is she ok?" he asked in concern.

"She's a bit upset today. Some of the girls at nursery have been teasing her for not having a mum."

"Oh Christ," John exclaimed, running a hand through his hair.

"She was asking about Mary."

"What did you say?"

"What could I say? I told her to talk with you."

John sighed. "Right. Thanks. I'll sort it. I'll try to sort it, but not tonight."

He pinched Molly on the shoulder gently. Next thing they knew, they were almost knocked off their feet as the three-year-old moved past them at speed, hearing the click of the front door lock.

"Sherlock!" Rosie exclaimed, leaping into the air. He caught her quickly and she squealed.

"Well now, were you waiting for me?" He kissed his goddaughter roughly on the head.

"Yes, come see, we're having a party!"

"A party? When?"

Sherlock caught Molly and John exchange glances.

"Now," John said lamely. "Surprise."

Sherlock lowered Rosie to the floor and scowled at his friends.

"Wha- Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Sherlock Holmes!" came a cry from Mrs Hudson's open door.

"Oh, you invited my mother! Bloody fantastic!"

"Yes," John said in a low voice, hoping Sherlock would do the same. "Your mother and father are here, and your brother. Don't! Now, listen, it's been a long year and we would like to celebrate the fact that you are still alive. So, this is what's going to happen. Go in there, smile, eat your dinner, blow out your candles and then it will all be over."

They locked stares, Rosie looked up between the two of them.

"Fine," Sherlock huffed in resignation, "But I need to wash and change first." He marched upstairs to his flat. John smiled tightly at Molly.

"I said it was a bad idea."

"Yes, thank you, Molly."

Wine was opened and poured. John took an extra large sip and then another. Mrs Hudson announced that she would soon be dishing up Molly's wonderful dish. There were polite comments about how the meal smelled delicious.

"Mycroft, please, put that thing away," his mother chided, as the man forced his phone back into his pocket. "An hour, with your family. That is all I ask."

"Of course, Mother. And where is the birthday boy, I wonder."

They were silenced for a moment by the sound of a dull bang, further in the house.

"That might be Greg," Mrs Hudson announced, opening her door and peeking her head around to check the front door. "No, nobody there."

John suddenly cringed.

"Bathroom window," he cursed under his breath. Molly looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," John shook his head. "Look, we'd best dish up," he suggested, imagining his dear friend, the birthday boy, leaping from the bathroom window above and out into the London streets. Anything to prevent himself from celebrating his birthday with the people who loved him the most.

A/N - Were we ever told Sherlock's parent's names? I'm not sure. In the wedding episode, when he reads the soppy telegram from 'Stella and Ted', I always imagined it was his mum and dad, so there you go.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

As the plates were filled, the door bell rang. Molly answered to find Greg on the doorstep.

"I found this one at the end of the street, trying to hail a cab."

Sherlock was shoved over the doorstep and into the hall way. Molly shook her head, irritated, and walked away.

"Smells amazing," Greg exclaimed cheerily, greeting everyone with a wave. "What are we having?" He was handed a beer by John and took a seat at the table. Everyone squashed around, wedging themselves in to the mix-match of chairs, including those from the flat above.

"Molly has made beef stroganoff," Mrs Hudson announced and they all called their thanks. Molly's cheeks warmed at the praise.

"You made this, Doctor Hooper?" Mycroft asked. "This is excellent."

"Thank you, Mycroft. Cooking is no different to chemistry, if you think about it. Timing, stirring, measuring, heating. I'm well practised."

"Indeed. Coincidently, I am currently searching for a new sous chef at home. My current is retiring in the spring, I'm sad to say. The job is there, should you wish to cook my meals on a permanent basis." He looked at Molly expectantly.

"Ah, what a shame I'm only a forensic pathologist," Molly answered dryly. John began to choke on a forkful of food. Sherlock hid a grin behind his wine.

"Yes. Quite," Mycroft replied flatly.

The meal was finished and cleared away. Rosie squealed at the sight of the chocolate cake, her troubles temporarily forgotten. Mrs Hudson lit candles and Sherlock refused to blow them out so Rosie did it with gusto. She beamed as they all chuckled at her. The candles were lit again and Mrs Hudson insisted.

"Make a wish, Sherlock."

He rolled his eyes and blew. "Ah, what a shame, you're all still here."

Cake and tea were handed around and they moved from the table to relax. Sherlock's mother linked her arm through her youngest son's. "My baby boy. Forty! I feel so old. Happy birthday, sweetheart." She kissed him on the cheek and he fought the urge to wipe it away. "It's so kind of you to invite us here – "

"I didn't."

" –To share your special day. All of your family together."

"Well, not _all_ ," Sherlock said quietly. His mother squeezed his arm, shaking her head as if shaking the very thoughts from it.

"No, of course." She gave a sigh as she looked around the room for a distraction. Her husband sat chatting animatedly to Lestrade, Mrs Hudson handed out the cake, Mycroft's attention was firmly back with his phone, and in the corner, John and Molly were twirling Rosie around between them, as she danced.

"Oh Sherlock, she is so wonderful. It's so nice to be able to get to know her. It's no wonder you fell in love with her."

His gaze snapped to his mother's warm smile.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I never thought I'd see the day. Maybe you could bring her with you, to your dad's 70th later this year," his mother continued. "I'd love to introduce her to the family."

Sherlock's jaw opened and closed.

"Who are you talking about?"

"Rosie, of course!" his mother laughed. "Honestly Sherlock, who else would I be talking about?"

"No one," he replied abruptly, turning back to survey the room in the hope that his mother wouldn't notice the colour that had risen upon his cheeks. Beside him, Stella Holmes gave a knowing smile.

A cup of tea was placed into Sherlock's hands and he was glad to have something to do with them. He was mid-sip with Lestrade bellowed "Speech!"

Sherlock shook his head, struggling to swallow the hot liquid.

"Seriously, Greg?" John piped up, grinning with the merry glow of alcohol and cake. "Do you not recall his best man speech?"

"Ah, yes," Lestrade agreed. "Perhaps not."

"To Sherlock," John announced briefly. They raised their tea cups.

"Sherlock!" The slurped their tea in unison.

"Now get out," Sherlock mumbled behind his cup.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Molly collected the cake plates and carried them into the kitchen, running a bowl of hot soapy water.

"Leave that, love," Mrs Hudson called.

"It's no bother. It won't take long."

She busied herself by the sink, humming quietly to herself. Sherlock spoke behind her, making her jump.

"Rosie sang at me."

"Ah, yes. We've been practising," she grinned over her shoulder. A cup slipped from her gloved hands, splashing soapy water up at her. She tutted, taking the thick of the wet from her jumper with a tea towel. "Did you enjoy?" She passed the tea towel to Sherlock and continue to wash.

"It was… interesting…"

"Walking On Sunshine. A classic. One of her mum's favourites," Molly supplied with a fond smile.

John shuffled into the narrow kitchen to join them, carrying a sleepy Rosie in his arms.

"Leave that, Molly. I'll do it in a bit. I'm just taking this one upstairs to sleep on the sofa. Rosie, say goodnight to Uncle Sherlock and Aunty Mo."

They exchanged goodnights. Rosie gave them both a sloppy kiss. Molly put bubbles on the end of Rosie's nose and she giggled.

"Sweet dreams, baby girl."

Rosie gave them a sleepy wave over her dad's shoulder. As they left, Greg squeezed past them. He too gave a wave.

"I'm heading off. On the early shift. These criminals don't catch themselves." He laughed loudly. "Thanks for dinner, Molly."

"No problem. Oh, take some cake!" She shuffled around the kitchen, slicing a wedge of cake and wrapping it carefully in foil.

"You are perfect!" Greg exclaimed as she handed the parcel over.

"Hardly," she scoffed.

"No you are, isn't she Sherlock? Post-mortems, cooking, is there anything you can't do?"

"I was never much good at cross-stitch."

Lestrade laughed and pulled her into a bear-hug.

"I could live without that. Night night all. Happy birthday, bud." He slapped Sherlock on the shoulder as he left. Sherlock scowled but it went unseen.

Molly chuckled to herself as she pulled on her washing up gloves, topping up the hot water. Sherlock reached for the tea towel again and grabbed at a soapy plate. Molly smiled her thanks.

A voice called from the living room.

"Sherlock, your brother is leaving. Come say goodbye."

He ignored his mother's request. She soon appeared at the door.

"Bloody hell! Well, I've seen it all now," his mother laughed at him. "Tear yourself away from the drying up and say goodbye to your brother. He's going back to work."

Sherlock merely stared at her. She raised an eyebrow and he marched from the room. Molly smiled and received a wink in return. It was mere seconds before Sherlock returned, muttering under his breath.

"Your mum and dad seem nice," Molly said, casually.

"You seem surprised."

"Well… yeah…"

They continued the task in a comfortable silence. John's voice joined the gathering in the living room and a lively chatter could be heard. Sherlock preferred not to know the topic of conversation. Forty years on the planet had given his mother more than enough stories. He felt suddenly relieved that Molly was with him and not in the living room. Instead of risking a glance at her, he looked up at the window in front of them, at her reflection in the dark glass. She looked tired as she concentrated on the dishes. He had a sudden regret about his reaction to the dinner party.

"Thank you for today, for cooking dinner for everyone." The tea towel was pulled awkwardly between his hands. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to. It was my pleasure." She smiled warmly, brushing her hair out of her eyes with her wrist. Soap suds dripped from her rubber gloves, landing unnoticed on her cheek. Sherlock almost moved to wipe it away when she began pulling the gloves off forcefully.

"Actually, before I forget…" Reaching under the kitchen table, she thrust a gift bag in his direction. He blinked in surprise.

"Happy birthday!"

"Oh Molly, really, you didn't –"

"I know I didn't have to, but I saw it and thought of you."

He opened the bag, feeling slightly embarrassed as she watched. The other guests laughed at something from the living room.

From the bag, he produced a hardback book.

"March's Advanced Chemistry," he murmured the title into the air.

"Fourth edition, I'm afraid. I'm not made of money," Molly laughed, suddenly shy. Sherlock turned it over in his hands.

"I used to have this. It was destroyed –"

"In the explosion, I know. Well, I hope it's useful, anyway."

The book was placed carefully on the side, avoiding the pools of water from the washing up bowl. Without another word, Sherlock pulled Molly close and kissed her on the top of her head. She froze for a moment before relaxing into his arms.

"Thank you."

"It's just a book, Sherlock."

"No, it's not."

They regarded each other silently. Sherlock began to open his mouth to speak, when a sudden noise silenced him. The loud, pleasured moan of a woman filled the silence, escaping from Sherlock's jacket pocket. He stepped back in surprise as Molly turned abruptly to the sink, pulling the gloves back onto her delicate hands.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" she muttered quietly to the sink.

"No, I…"

"It's fine, Sherlock. Really."

Their moment was over. Sherlock stood, useless, in the middle of the tiny kitchen and then in the next instant found himself being bustled out of the room by John, brandishing a tea towel and telling him to stop avoiding his guests.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

It was only later that evening, as he watched his parents pulling away in a cab, that Sherlock realised that Molly had left without saying goodbye. On weary legs, he made his way upstairs to where John sat on the sofa, Rosie asleep under one arm and a whisky held in the hand of the other. John indicated to a second glass on the coffee table. Sherlock picked it up as he lowered himself carefully beside his friend. They clinked glasses quietly, taking their pensive sips.

"Happy birthday, old man," John teased, resting his glass on his knee.

"Yes, well. You will always be older than me."

"And that, my friend, is my gift to you."

Sherlock smiled slightly, closing his eyes as he rested his head on the back of the sofa.

"Have you had a good day?"

"Mmm."

"Same again next year?"

"God, no."

They sat together, the three of them on the sofa, as the light faded. The constant hum of the traffic below filled the comfortable silence. Mrs Hudson popped in for a moment to wish them goodnight. Then, all was still.

John was almost asleep himself, when Sherlock spoke beside him.

"I had a birthday message… from the Woman."

"Classic Irene," John replied. "She still alive then?"

"I replied."

John sat up suddenly, his sleeping daughter momentarily forgotten.

"Wow. What did you say to her?"

"I asked her not to contact me again."

John placed his empty glass onto the coffee table with a loud thud and turned to Sherlock with a scoff.

"What? Why would you do that? I thought you liked her?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Time to move on," he announced simply, rising from the sofa. "I'm forty now. New decade, new me and all of that bollocks." The empty glasses clinked together as he carried them in one hand to his kitchen sink.

John followed him, leaning against the door frame as he watched him.

"Well, if you're sure. I just… I don't want you to look back on your life and regret being… lonely."

"Old and lonely," Sherlock quipped and John barked a laugh.

"Old, lonely and a pain in the arse," John sighed.

Sherlock leant against the kitchen counter.

"I'm not lonely, John. I have you and Rosie."

The men smiled at each other.

"Of course you do. You always will."

John headed back to the living room and then called out, "Hey, who was the book from?"

Sherlock swallowed, tasting something like guilt.

"Molly."

"Ah, that's sweet."

Well, that was Molly. Sweet, caring, kind. Sherlock picked the heavy book up, feeling a sudden weight in the pit of his stomach.

"Well, goodnight, John."

He headed to the cool, dark loneliness of his bedroom.

000

The book was placed carefully on Sherlock's bedside table as Sherlock lowered himself onto the edge of his bed. Long fingers opened the front cover and he was surprised to find hand-drawn etchings of a chemical structure on the first page. Dopamine; the love chemical. He traced the pen with his finger, following each line, imagining her hand as she drew it.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. Beside him, the clock turned 00:01. His birthday was over.

Still fully dressed, Sherlock lay on his bed looking up at the ceiling as he listened to the silence of the house. John must be asleep by now, in his old room, Rosie cuddled up beside her father. In the distance a siren passed, growing suddenly loud and then faint into the distance of central London.

00:02

Suddenly, Sherlock leapt up again, grabbing the handle of the drawer on his bedside table. Rummaging through the drawer, he snatched at a pen from beneath a pile of receipts. The drawer was slammed closed with too much enthusiasm, making the bedside lamp wobble, causing a strange shadow over the page that Sherlock had now reopened.

Below Molly's etching, Sherlock began his own. It took him only a moment as he drew the structure. Then, struggling for light, he activated the camera on his phone, capturing his new addition to the book. The ink was barely dry.

Sherlock's thumbs moved across the screen of his phone as he attached the photo and sent the message into the night. Minutes felt stretched as he awaited a response. A tick appeared by the message, telling him that it had been received. Within moments, it had been viewed. The word 'Typing…' appeared on the screen for a flash. Despite expecting it, his phone startled him when it beeped a notification.

 _ **What?**_

Sherlock tutted and thumbed a reply.

 _ **It's Caffeine.**_

 _ **Yes, I know that. What's your point?**_

Sherlock took a deep breath, annoyed with himself at how his hands trembled as he typed his next response.

 _ **Coffee? Or tea? Either. Or something else, it's not compulsory.**_

There was a moment before his message was acknowledge. He imagined her sitting up in her bed, pushing her hair from off her face.

 _ **Sherlock, what are you on about?**_

 _ **A drink. With me.**_

He wished his face wasn't so hot.

 _Typing…_

A pause.

 _Typing…_

Again.

 _Typing…_

 _ **Sherlock, are you asking me out?**_

He grinned, no longer caring that he felt goofy or hot or foolish. He pictured her flushing, the wrinkle above her nose appearing as it did when she was happy, confused or generally pissed off with him.

 _ **Yes.**_

 _ **Oh.**_

He wished he could see her but was equally pleased that he couldn't.

 _ **I'd like that, very much.**_

Sherlock lay back down on the bed and sighed to himself. He was forty years old and yet felt fourteen. His phone chimed once more into the darkness.

 _ **Just to be clear, you don't mean right now?**_

 _ **No. But soon.**_

 _ **Ok. Well, goodnight Sherlock.**_

 _ **Goodnight, Molly Hooper.**_

The End


End file.
